


Faith and Misery

by marvels_ninja



Category: American Idiot - All Media Types, American Idiot - Green Day/Armstrong
Genre: Suicide Attempt, Swearing, eventual hospital mention, eventual needle mention, frequent passing out, like a lot since it’s ai, well more than a mention but you get my drift
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-21
Updated: 2018-04-22
Packaged: 2019-04-25 18:00:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14384037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marvels_ninja/pseuds/marvels_ninja
Summary: This is how everything really happened to him.





	1. Waiting

**Author's Note:**

> Hey everyone! I wanted to just preface this fic since a lot of this is my personal interpretation, since we all know the musical doesn’t give us too much to go on character-wise, so I took the liberty of incorporating aspects from other productions of the show as well. I also want to say that my representation of war, guns, effects of post-traumatic stress...all that is easily not the most accurate. Please message me if any of it is truly damning. Thank you!

Tunny awoke to off-key strumming and absently rolled over on his cot.

  
“Tunny!” Johnny was saying, rather loudly. It sounded like he’d said his name more than a few times now. Tunny had been dead asleep for about an hour, having gotten off his shift at the local bar at around three in the morning.

  
He glanced up at Johnny, who’d started poking at Tunny’s leg with his guitar. He was wearing a black jean vest, skinny jeans, and a white undershirt. Tunny has taken off his own shirt the moment he stepped through the door of their apartment, clad in only boxers and his own white undershirt under a thin blanket pulled to just above his rib cage.

  
With a sudden feeling of annoyance, and still a bit groggy after being jerked out of his sleep, Tunny blurted out, “Leave me alone, John’.”

  
“Alright, fine. God. I just wanted to tell you I was about to head to a gig, okay? Jesus…” Johnny scoffed, hopping off the cot.

  
Tunny inwardly winced. He must’ve sounded angrier than he felt.

  
“Oh,” Tunny said softer, “right. Yeah, see you later, man.”

  
“Yeah. Whatever. We have this whole city, _our_ city, and all you want to do is fuckin’ sleep. Fantastic.”

  
The door shut louder than expected as Johnny walked out, guitar gripped tightly in hand.

  
Tunny breathed out a long sigh as he switched to laying on his back, a hand behind his head. He could feel the cold of the hardwood floor seeping through his cot and shivered, feeling a little guilty and insecure.

  
It seemed like Johnny went on more and more gigs.

  
Tunny was once again alone in the dead of night, without a soul in the building who was awake. He reluctantly pulled himself out of the cot with a groan to get his pills from the bathroom. Once he grabbed them from the counter, he peered into the bottle and noticed that only half the pills were left. Thank God he’d brought his emergency bottle with him as well to the city, and they were strong, too, so he knew they were doing _something_. He popped his prescribed two in his mouth anyway with a gulp of water, feeling the pills slide down his dry throat. Hopefully, he thought, the meds would clear the thoughts away for now. It was okay Johnny wasn’t here. He was fine by himself—it’s not like Johnny’s intention was to leave him behind every single night. Without fail. Almost as soon as Tunny got back from work each night.

  
He caught his expression in the mirror. His face was a hurtful mixture of nervousness and loneliness, nothing like the person who’d left that dirty town wide-eyed and ready for adventure. He raked a hand through his blonde mess of short hair.

  
Why _did_ Johnny leave him every night?

  
Yes, Tunny knew, gigs meant money, and money meant they kept the apartment, but it _seemed_ like Johnny didn’t want him around a lot. _He_ has _known Will for longer_ , Tunny thought a bit bitterly. Both of them had been upset that they had to leave Will in their shithole of a town, but something inside him knew that Johnny wanted Will here with him just a _little_ more than Tunny, even if he never said it.

  
Tunny popped two more pills without even thinking.

  
_Johnny doesn’t want me here._

  
He paused. Two more.

  
_He wishes I wasn’t here._

  
Another two.

  
_I wish I wanted to be here._

  
Two.

  
_I wish there was a reason to be here._

  
Two, and two, and two again. Empty.

  
Tunny hesitated.

  
_I don’t want to be here._

  
He hastily grabbed his extra bottle and shoved a few more down his throat.

  
_There aren’t any signs saying I should be here._

  
This continued, and Tunny stumbled back to his cot, black spots in his vision as he searched for the TV remote. He turned it on to something, anything, anything to escape. Just a few more pills.

  
_Signs misleading to—_

  
Tunny’s eyes rolled up into his head and he messily collapsed onto the cot, a tangle of lean limbs, shaking, the empty pill bottles rolling beside him on the floor.

  
***

  
Tunny awoke with a surprised yelp.

  
This was not the apartment and certainly not death.

  
He was... _nowhere_.

  
Tunny was seated in a chair in a gigantic empty room, save for the hundreds of TVs on the walls. It wasn’t quite a room at the same time—the walls seemed to go on for as far as he could see. He thought he could hear music in the distance.

  
He squinted as he stood. Suddenly all the TVs blinked on at once. Flags, slogans, and camouflage now covered the walls. He turned to see every TV dripping with patriotic messages and propaganda.

  
_“HE HIT THE GROUND RUNNIN’!”_

  
Tunny whipped himself around as a thousand people flooded him from the sides, throwing him off whatever guard he’d previously had. _A giant… flash…mob…?_

_  
“AT THE SPEED OF LIGHT!”_

  
Tunny’s hands flew over his ears as ear-splitting noise surged from all directions. He went from confused to panicked and he started frantically looking around him for a way out. This wasn’t what he wanted. This was not at all what he had tried to... _achieve_. The people were coming closer, trying to close in. Fear was crawling up his stomach, trying to make its way to his throat so he could scream.

  
_“HIS STAR WAS BRIGHTLY SHINING… LIKE A NEON LIGHT!”_

  
He started running away without a second thought.

  
Not looking back, not second-guessing. He just shut his eyes and full-on sprinted away from the confusion, and noise, and flat-out delusion that was behind him. He could feel wind against his face, the muscles in his legs pumping up and down, aiding as best they could in his anxious escape attempt.

  
Until something wrapped around his ankle, pulling his left leg horizontally out from under him completely. It happened so fast that he didn’t even register his face slamming into the ground at high speed, heavily bruising his right cheekbone. All he could feel was a bolt of fury as dark and red as the blood forming from his newly split lip.

  
“Who the _fuck_ ,” he started icily as he turned his head around to see what had botched his “plan” of escape. A girl in a blinding red sequined dress flashed a crazy grin as she started to pull him backwards toward the mob. “No,” Tunny pleaded as he realized what has happening, eyes widening to saucers. He desperately tried to inch away. “No no no no no….!”

  
He felt another hand close around his other ankle. One more grabbed his left arm.

He scrambled to wrench himself away, but the two new grips were also of steel and started to pull him back once again, with alarming speed. He felt bile rise in throat as more and more people grabbed onto him while he was still on the ground, forcefully tugging him back, unfamiliar hands running up and down his body, touching, sliding, squeezing, clawing. He resented how touch-sensitive he was in the normal world, but it was nothing compared to the disgust and sickness he felt now.

  
_“IT’S YOUR FAV’RITE SON!”_ Bellowed a new voice.

  
The world seemed to freeze for a small moment.

  
Tunny _knew_ that. He knew that phrase. The one familiar thing in this nightmare and it made him want to retch.

  
His father used to call him that.

  
“You know you’re my favorite son, right, Tunny?” His father would say and smile down at him, tucking him carefully into bed for the night.

  
“Daa-ad, I’m your only son. I don’t even have a sister!” Ten-year-old Tunny would whine back, and his father would chuckle and kiss Tunny’s forehead, telling him how loved him so much, before shutting the door.

  
Tunny never saw him again. It wasn’t like he got to see him very often, with his off-and-on deployments in Iraq, but that time, Iraq took him for good.

  
Tunny’s snap back to his hellish reality was too quick to measure.

  
“Who the _fuck_ is saying that!” He screamed, still being dragged helplessly back, anger bursting at its seams. “Fucking show yourself! Where are you?!”

  
His screams and pleas were ignored, unnoticed, and he was finally shoved back into the original chair, harshly, the smiles on his attackers’ faces, not in their eyes. He closed his own eyes and turned his head against the light catching on the endless sea of sequined dresses. Hands slid up his chest and down his shoulders, the once sensual act now seeming as painful as a punch square in the jaw. Tunny leaned back as far as he could in the chair, trying to find some sense of out, some distance between him and the mob. Kisses on his cheeks, his forehead, his neck, and even some on his lips landed like rapid gunfire, raining down one after relentless other. He felt the nausea return, and some of his vision became spotty. Pure fear rose in his chest and his breath became quick, too quick. There was too much contact. He couldn’t bear it any longer—it was actual torture.

  
Just when he was about to beg for mercy, his chair was ripped out from under him, and Tunny sprawled onto his back, hitting his head on the ground. Someone laughed, and through his dizzy confusion, Tunny sputtered out an indignant, “oh, shut the fuck…up….?” He trailed off as he looked up. The man who was laughing came into full view.

  
It was him. He knew. This man was the source of it all.

  
A chocolate-skinned man with a stunning six-pack of abs in only underwear and black socks was smiling down at him, visibly stifling more laughs.

  
After a brief moment of disbelief, Tunny regained his sense of dignity, his cheeks flushing pink as he scrambled to stand himself up.

  
“Who—hey!” Tunny’s one chance to interrogate the source of his nightmare was cut short when two of the girls shoved him back and formed a barrier around their own personal captain underpants, the man cackling behind his wall of women. There were too many of them—Tunny tried to push past them but another would take her place.

  
_“TURN A TEENAGE LUSH...TO A MILLIONAIRE!”_

  
The barrier girls crouched and time stopped again.

  
The man in the center stepped around the girls and closer to Tunny. It wasn’t the dark-skinned man, but…

  
_This isn’t real_ , Tunny tried to steele himself. _None of this is actually happening, this isn’t actually—_

  
“...Dad?”

Tunny cursed himself. This was a fucking illusion and his voice was cracking.

  
This picture-perfect version of his father was not a day over thirty-five, the age he’d last seen him at. He was wearing the sandy camo pants of a marine with a tight black shirt. How his father looked every time he’d come home to him.

  
“But—how the—I don’t...understand…” Tunny’s disbelief started to take over, dissolving any sense of logic he had left, and he walked slowly towards his father as if hypnotized by his presence.

The nightmare was in complete control of his thoughts. He knew it wasn’t real, it wasn’t his father, but something beyond his understanding tugged his body forward until they were only an arm’s length away.

  
Should he embrace him? _Could_ he even embrace him?

  
But when the man smiled at him, a disarming, charming smirk, the thought erased itself from Tunny’s mind as he practically melted into his father’s arms.

_  
“Now where’s your fuckin’ champion?”_

  
Images and memories flooded Tunny’s brain as soon as they connected. Young Tunny screaming and crying at his broken mother, Tunny near blackout drunk at a party, Tunny giving in to Johnny’s disastrous plans, Tunny blowing up at an old girlfriend, not looking like himself. He didn’t even remember that one.

  
_“He’s not the all-american that you thought you paid!”_

  
New pictures blotted out the previous ones, but none of the memories were his own.

  
He instead saw his father in uniform standing over a map placed on the hood of some vehicle, other men listening and nodding as he gave some sort of directions to the four men he was talking to. He saw his father help a man up who had taken a bullet to the arm, saw him shouting for a medic as he rushed him away from the heat of a firefight. Men and women looking to him for instruction, looking to him for some calm in the storm, for guidance…

  
_...Kind of how Johnny and Will look to you sometimes_ , his mind tried to persuade him. But after what he’d just seen of himself, what’d he’d been shown of himself... _how can I ever be as good as him?_

  
“You can, Tun,” his father said, seemingly reading his thoughts. “You’re my favorite boy, Tunny. Now you’ve got to be your own favorite.”

  
They came apart. Tunny instantly was more aware than ever of all the obvious wrong turns he had taken—he had known in the moment they weren’t the “right” thing, but he never considered them to be…bad. If his father knew what he’d done in his past…

  
Tunny’s stomach filled with regret. His father would be so disappointed in what he’d become, so willing to do the wrong thing to have a good time. Just because something felt good didn’t make it actually good, Tunny knew, but for the first time, it really clicked. Not everything good felt good initially. His dad would know that best. If only there was some way to make it up to his dad, the one person he looked up to in his whole life. If there was a more concrete way to be like him, to do…

  
…to do what he had done.

  
The idea popped into Tunny’s mind before he could stop it. That was a huge leap of action and he knew it.

  
_But it’s possible_ , his mind whispered to him, seeming to egg him on. _It’s the quickest way._

  
_That doesn’t make it easy_ , Tunny argued back. Did he really want something like that?

  
_It shouldn’t be easy. Doing the right thing shouldn’t be easy. That’s how you know it’s right._

  
_Ah, fuck_ , Tunny inwardly sighed. This was one of the many times he hated being right.

  
His father held out his right hand to him.

  
Tunny did his best to slow his heart rate, hyper-aware of its rising speed. He couldn’t tell if he wanted this.

  
_I have to. I have to for him, and for me, and for all my shitty mistakes._

  
Tunny looked his father in the eyes, his expression one of pure determination, and firmly shook his hand. His father smiled at him, and saluted his son. His only and favorite son.

  
_I do want this._

  
Tunny reluctantly copied his father.

  
***

Tunny woke up gasping for air, propelling himself into a sitting position the moment his eyes fluttered open. He absently took in both empty pill bottles on the ground next to him, barely remembering what he tried to do to himself. He couldn’t even think of ever doing something like that now, and scootched away from the empty orange bottles in fear and shame.

  
He took in breath after slow breath, still trying to register what had just happened in his mind, only just his _mind_ for god’s sake, still reeling from its vividness. He closed his eyes and tilted his head back, still able to feel the hands clamoring all over his body, a chill spilling down his spine.

  
But for once in his life, he felt like he had a real direction to go in, an actual purpose.

  
His thoughts snapped to attention.

  
He had to leave.

  
He had to get out. Again. He couldn’t stay any longer—the city had chewed him up and spit him out whole, just like Jingletown had, leaving him feeling meaningless and desperate for a purpose. He vaguely noticed Johnny wasn’t back yet, probably still out there, somewhere, angry and playing his heart out as always.

  
_Oh, shit_. Tunny’s eyes widened on their own.

  
_Johnny_.

  
Johnny had always been the leader, making the executive decisions, Tunny and Will listening and going along without a second thought. That’s what the city’d been, _Johnny’s_ idea of a fantastic adventure. And for the first time, Tunny realized that it wasn’t also _his_ idea. Not many of Johnny’s plans ever truly were. Understanding dawned on him like light filling a dark empty room.

  
The dream—the _nightmare_ —had been a sign, a signal.

  
It was finally Tunny’s turn to make the choices.

  
This was Tunny’s first chance he saw to do what he truly wanted. It was time to grow up and decide for himself what he was going to do.

And dammit, although it was a rash and maybe a bit of a stupid, dangerous, out of this world choice, at least it was his alone to make.

  
Tunny quickly pushed himself off the ground, eyes set and determined to find all his belongings and pack them back up, throwing some clothes on, then skimming the internet for some important locations and numbers, necessities, and what he was really about to get himself into.

  
He was about to send Johnny a text but  stopped himself. He knew Johnny’s style, his love for lyrics and writing, personability.

  
So instead he searched the apartment for a piece of paper, and after finding that, took out a blue pen.

  
_Hey, Johnny._  
 _You’re gonna kill me for this._  
Especially doing this while you’re out and away. It’d probably come off like I’m escaping or running away, or something. It actually feels more like I’m finally coming towards something rather than abandoning something.  
I think I’ve finally realized that we were so eager to leave town that we forgot we needed a real reason to. Maybe you’ve found your reason, your passion, doing gigs in bars around the city. I still haven’t. I think I’m close, though. I’ve found something I think a part of me has always been interested in no matter how hard I’ve tried to push it away. I think I found a purpose I could attempt to get behind.  
All these batshit crazy things I’ve done with you and Will, all those carefree choices we made together were fun as hell, gave our teenage years a real buzz if you know what I mean, but…they haven’t been good decisions. Just because something feels good doesn’t mean it’s actually good, I think.  
Sometimes actual good doesn’t feel good. And I’ve never felt that way before in my life. I think it’s time to.  
You remember me talking about my dad ever? I never did it much. Maybe I should’ve done it more. Only knew him for half my life and now he suddenly makes an impact, ten years later. He did something that not everyone is capable of. He did something that guys can only dream of, or maybe piss themselves in fear of: he did what he really believed was right.  
He was such an amazing person, Johnny. And I’ve been absolutely nothing like that. I’m starting to think I should be more like that.  
This is just a poor way of saying that—

  
Tunny’s hand was shaking, and for some reason he felt tears well up in the corner of his eyes. The magnitude of his choice seemed to hit him right then.

  
He could die. He could die just like his father.

  
He could never see Johnny or Will—Tunny gave himself a mental note to remember to write Will a similar essay—ever again. But a part of his mind whispered how it would be worth it, it’d be _worth it_ , he could be a hero, what he’d wanted since he was a child…

  
And Tunny’s mind subconsciously let go. Gave in.

  
He didn’t realize it, but he was giving in, not proving anyone wrong.

It was the same part of his mind that had said he couldn’t jump the fence right before he’d barely scraped over, the same voice that had said he was too scared to take a sip from the whiskey bottle his mother kept on top of the highest shelf right before he’d climbed up and downed a third of it.

The same voice, forever taunting, forever mocking, forever daring him to just _do it._

  
But he couldn’t tell. Tunny couldn’t tell. He didn’t know.

  
So he stilled his hand, wiped his eyes, silenced his thoughts.

  
_This is a poor way of saying that I’ve decided to become a marine. Just like him. Maybe I can become better this way, maybe it’s a sick and twisted repentance that my heart’s telling me to take part in. Or maybe I really want this. I’ve never felt like that before about something. And I have to chase that, Johnny, just like how you chase your next gig._  
I hope that gigging is what you really want. I hope this is what I really want.  
I’ll see you around, okay? I WILL be in touch. I promise. This isn’t goodbye.  
 _—Tun  
P.s don’t tell Will before I do._

Tunny ripped a piece of tape from the dispenser Johnny had begged him to buy and stuck the letter to the door. He shouldered his bag over his back and gave a look of longing at the apartment.

  
_It’s worth it._

  
_**Worth it.** _

  
_Do it._

  
Tunny pushed himself through the door, down the steps, into the freezing February air, footsteps rigid yet quick and determined.

  
He was done waiting. It was time to be the favorite son he never was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> more to come!


	2. Peacemaker

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Give Me Novocaine, but with an added bonus.

“Assassin Three, this is Assassin Actual! Abort your current position—get your men out and go! Receiving heavy—”

 

The radio erupted into static, and the metallic pitter-patter of gunfire sounded, vaguely far behind Tunny’s vehicle.

 

“Lieutenant?” Tunny’s captain snatched the radio from the dash of their Humvee they were idly waiting in in the dark for new orders. The two other men, in the back of the humvee, leaned forward, concerned as the captain continued, “Lieutenant Ryan, are you there? Dan?”

 

Tunny gripped the wheel tightly as he shifted his wide-eyed gaze to his captain, Pete Rogers, whose leg was now bouncing nervously.

 

Both men in the front half of the humvee attempted to regain themselves, Tunny briefly closing his eyes, trying to accept what had just happened in a matter of moments, while Rogers put the radio back as steadily as possible.

 

“You heard the L.T,” the captain said, a bit quiet, so just Tunny could hear the grief in his voice. Then, louder for the whole vehicle, “Corporal, get the gas going. Guns at the ready, Assassin Three! Possible encounter of heavy fire somewhere behind us. Get us moving, Clarke! We’re Oscar Mike!” Rogers added when Tunny remained stiff as a board. While the two men in the back set up their assault weapons partway out the windows, Tunny jerked his arms into a better position and scrambled to get a good footing on the gas pedal.

 

“Yes, sir,” Tunny said as strong as he could muster. They had to be Oscar Mike—marine talk for ‘on the move’—or they’d all be dead soon enough.

 

Tunny had a good automatic sense of what they were leaving behind them, despite the eerie quiet of the sandy landscape under the now silent navy sky that tried to deceive them. Tunny trusted his captain—he was personable yet strict, and he very much cared about all his men in the humvee, which wasn’t true for all team leaders. So Tunny didn’t look behind him at the assumed flaming mess, trusting wholeheartedly in Rogers’s furrowed eyebrows and tight-lipped expression, dramatically shadowed in the 22:00 blackness.

 

Rogers had picked up the radio again, trying to keep track of where Assassins One and Two were located and where to meet them. Tunny couldn’t help glancing over at him. His captain was probably ten years older than him, maybe fifteen, never showing it in combat for a moment.

 

In that instant he actually considered himself lucky.

 

All his initiation, all his training, everyone had been, well, a dick. A completely and utter _dick_ who wouldn’t stop screaming about how slow you were going, or how they would get you kicked out by next week, or how you weren’t strong enough, weren’t good enough. Every day was excruciating, and by the end of it all, Tunny had stayed just to spite his superiors, not because he wanted to be there.

 

But after all that, he got assigned to Assassin Three, with Captain Rogers (which he _never_ heard the end of) as his team leader, and young Privates Anderson and Callahan. It was a whole different plane of existence than everything about initiation—Tunny actually cared for these people, he had an assigned _purpose_ to protect them with his life, and the same went for them about him. The four men had a special closeness, a strange little family. He was comfortable. He was where…

 

He finally seemed to be somewhere he was happy with.

 

“Copy, Assassin Two. We’re right behind you. Take a left at your 11, Tun,” Rogers said softly, pulling Tunny out of his thoughts with an order. He could hear Anderson and Callahan let out a few snickers in the back while Tunny carefully steered a slight left.

 

“Quiet down back there, children,” Tunny called back. Kenneth Anderson and Ben Callahan were both nineteen, and Tunny abused it, though he was only three years older.

 

“Okay, whatever you say, Corporal. Right after you tell us why the hell the captain just called you ‘ _Tun_ ,’” Ben cooed the last part, and Tunny didn’t have to turn to know there was a sly smile on the younger man’s face flashing in the dark. Tunny narrowed his eyes at that, looking over at Rogers.

 

“Pete, _did_ you call me Tun?” Tunny hadn’t even noticed, too wrapped up in his own thoughts. That was something his dad used to call him. He scoffed and looked at his commanding officer from the corner of his eye.

 

“Uh,” Pete allowed himself a small smile. “Might’ve. Oops.”

 

“Um, sir? What the fuck, sir.”

 

Kenneth couldn’t stifle his laugh, and Ben caught it from him moments after, both boys erupting in another bout of snickers. Half a grin snuck its way onto Tunny’s lips, grateful for the captain’s good humor.

 

He didn’t know what felt more unreal, the fact that they were laughing during such a difficult situation, or the fact that the situation was happening at all.

 

Tunny let himself glance quickly in the rearview mirror. He may trust his captain, but the urge to grasp the height of the situation was too much to bear.

 

In only half a second, he was able to see the smoking Iraqi city they’d just rolled through twenty minutes ago, lit up against the sky, and—somehow worse than a burning city—a humvee blasted to scraps by rapid and heavy machine gun fire, looking reminiscent of a dying bonfire.

 

Tunny screwed his eyes shut for a moment and turned them back to the dusty road, trying not to think about each personal interaction he’d had with the men in that vehicle.

 

He was glad Ben and Kenneth couldn’t see very well behind them.

 

“So,” Tunny heard Kenny’s quizzical voice start, “where are we—I mean, sir, where are we...where...where?”

 

Tunny once again looked over at Pete, trying to mimic what Kenny’s question might’ve looked like.

 

“I was only ordered to follow Assassins One and Two, Anderson,” their captain sighed. “I’m not too sure where our destination is.”

 

Apprehension filled the Humvee.

 

Almost like their subconsciouses knew what fate was coming their way.

 

Tunny whipped his head around as the metallic pitter pat sound suddenly returned. Closer.

 

“Cap—”

 

“ _Drive.”_

 

Tunny slammed his foot on the gas, adrenaline racing through his veins, as Rogers barked at the privates to keep their heads down, _‘I mean it,’_ , and grabbed the radio, warning Assassins One and Two of their current situation.

 

“Assassin, this is Assassin Three. Receiving fire from an unknown direction. How copy?”

 

There was no immediate reply as the gunfire raised in volume.

 

“Pete, what—where even are the other two humvees? Aren’t we following them?” Tunny questioned, raising his voice a bit louder above the roaring vehicle and bullets. He could picture Kenny and Ben’s scared expressions due to the silence in the car.

 

“I…” Pete almost looked unsure, then steeled himself. “We’re going the right way, and we are behind them. We…must just be father behind them than we were told.”

 

 _That’s...weird,_ Tunny managed to think, despite the atmosphere around him. Something just didn’t add up. Then a thought struck him.

 

“Do you know if uh, if one of the translators was in the L.T’s vehicle?” Tunny asked. He knew it was a weird question, and a weird time to ask questions, but if he was right…

 

“I don’t think so, Corporal,” Pete replied, reasonably confused. “Both of them are safe in the vehicles ahead of us.”

 

“And what was the uh, goal, of this mission again?” He didn’t want to be right. This was one of the many times he hated the possibility of him being right.

 

“To get…” Pete trailed off. His eyes slowly widened and he looked straight on at Tunny.

 

“To get the translators out of the city….?” Ben answered.

 

 _No._ They can’t do that. _Fuck. No. No no no._

 

“Is—was that the only goal of the mission? Any other...necessities?” Tunny’s voice couldn’t help but raise in pitch. The moment of purpose he had felt was wavering. _This is so fucked up. How can they get away with this?_

 

“I mean, as always, get as many marines out as you can, but…”

 

“...But that doesn’t always mean all of them,” Pete finished. “Oh my god. That’s why we’re so far behind the others—They—Assassins One and—we’re just—”

 

“Shields,” Tunny finished. He felt his blood begin to boil. “We’re just their fucking meat shields.”

 

Bullets chose then to erupt from the right side. Tunny swerved left, an arm covering his face.

 

“This is Assassin Three! Receiving heavy fire on our right flank! Speed up, One and Two! Get out of here!” Rogers shouted into the radio. Tunny clenched his jaw at the order the captain gave despite understanding it.

 

“Why the fuck—sir, why the fuck tell them to speed up?! We’re still here!” Kenny shouted from the back, hopefully ducking down away from stray bullets.

 

“Because they have to finish their fucking job if they’re making us finish ours,” Tunny seethed.

 

“But it’s not our job to be fucking shields, Tunny! It isn’t, it can’t be.”

 

Tunny hissed as a whizzing bullet slid over his right bicep, embedding itself into his headrest. “It is to them. It is to our own fucking general.”

 

Even as more more bullets rained down, now from the left as well, Tunny couldn’t feel scared. Only anger powered his movements.

 

Even as a grenade  exploded on their right backside, flipping the humvee messily on its left side, he could only feel numb infuriation.

 

Only when they’d crashed down, only when he heard a weak noise from Ben or Kenny—he couldn’t tell which—only when he heard a low groan from his captain, did he feel a wave of fear.

 

Tunny only had a family twice before. One with his dad and mom—then it was broken. Then with Will and Johnny—gone.

 

He couldn’t lose another family.

 

“Stay low. Stay low for your fucking life,” he heard Rogers hiss out. Tunny realized he couldn’t move—most of the roof had ended up on his leg. He wasn’t as much in pain as he was stuck, and unable to help. He couldn’t tell which was worse.

 

He also couldn’t tell how injured the rest of his group was—his body was facing in the opposite direction from the rest, and it was difficult for him to move his head. He knew the vehicle was on its left side—Tunny had toppled out of the humvee when the grenade exploded. He guessed part of the roof happened to “topple” off too, right onto him, gluing him to the dusty ground with no view of anything helpful.

 

“Is—” he started and coughed. “Is everyone alive?” He sensed a soft murmured “yes” from his captain, a cough from Ben, and heard Ken say, “this shield fuckin’ lived, bitch.”

 

Tunny picked up on faint shouts in Arabic through his daze. “Can anyone check if any guns are working and not jammed? Or can none of us fuckin’ move?”

 

“Mine’s good, Clarke,” Rogers replied, and a click was sounded when he cocked it. “Callahan, Anderson? Either of yours?”

 

“Uhm, yes. Yeah—mine works,” Ben answered, his voice hoarse.

 

“Shit. Am I the only one facing them? Because they’re coming,” Kenny said anxiously. He must’ve also fell out, like Tunny had.

 

_Ah, fuck._

 

Tunny dug his elbows into the dirt, and with a grunt, tried swinging his body to the left. He had to have eyes on these guys. He couldn’t let something fuck up his adopted family like this.

 

His leg and back were screaming, pain rippling up his spine as he pushed himself left towards Kenny. He could see Ben out of the corner of his eye, who’d been closest to the blast, having been sitting behind Rogers and on the right. He was fidgeting with his gun in an awkward position. Part of him was still inside the humvee, and he had clearly been sprayed with some shrapnel. The right side of his face was dotted with drips of blood, and small shards of the humvee were embedded in his leg.

 

“Ben,” Tunny hissed at him, partly because of the pain and partly because the Iraqis were coming. “Gun.”

 

Ben gave a weak nod and tossed his M-16 to Tunny, letting it land about a foot ahead of him.

 

“Guys,” Kenny said, and Tunny heard the Arabic talking get closer, “no gun, only one within range. Corporal, hurry the fuck up.”

 

“Trying, Private,” Tunny said, gritting his teeth. He kicked the roof on his left leg with his other leg, then kicked it again when it barely budged.

 

 _Fuck fuck fuck fuck,_ Tunny’s mind shrieked as he kept relentlessly kicking, hyper aware of every second that ticked by, every second that they were coming closer to them.

 

Tunny gasped as the weight finally left his backside. He hadn’t realized he couldn’t breathe. He rigorously pulled himself by his arms, gun in hand, to where Kenny was.

 

He could finally see.

 

Three Iraqi men were coming towards their smoking humvee, having abandoned their own vehicle that was a little ways behind them. They weren’t exactly hurrying over to the four marines. Perfect.

 

“Kenny, move behind me and closer towards to the Humvee,” Tunny instructed calmly, maybe even a bit coldly.

 

Tunny always knew he’d have problems shooting people.

 

Being a marine was what he wanted, and it was what he inevitably signed up for to shoot other human beings. He didn’t enjoy it, didn’t take any pleasure whatsoever, so he had to get himself a bit mentally prepared, get himself in his zone.

 

Tunny let his eyes flutter closed for a moment. He mentally removed himself from the situation, thinking only about the distance and the targets. Not people—targets. This was the only way he could shoot. An icy feeling shot through his nerves as he opened his eyes, positioned the rifle, and took his first shot.

 

He may not enjoy it, but even Tunny couldn’t deny he was a decent shot, even in the dark.

 

The bullet made contact with the target in his chest, blood spurting out of the wound as the bullet ripped through flesh. The shadow of a man fell.

 

“Damn, Corp,” Kenny whispered.

 

“Quiet,” Tunny snapped, not wanting any attention dragged away from the task at hand. The Iraqis were coming faster now, guns raised.

 

But not towards him.

 

He couldn’t put it together fast enough.

 

They started firing at the back end of the already ruined humvee.

 

Tunny’s eyes widened as he pushed himself away from the vehicle as fast as he was physically able. He saw Kenny understand and he grabbed onto Ben, trying to yank him away.

 

“GET AWAY FROM THE—“

 

Their vehicle exploded, the Iraqis probably shooting at some gasoline dribbling out of the humvee.

 

Tunny could only watch as both Ben and Kenny were thrown right, away from their small hiding spot out of sight from the Iraqis’ guns. He still couldn’t see the captain but heard a loud “fuck!” of pain behind him.

 

Tunny’s icy feeling melted away as he became very aware of his position. He was directly between where Rogers was located and where Kenny and Ben had been thrown.

 

His heartbeat roared in his ears as he realized he had to make a choice.

 

Tunny tried pulling himself away from his emotions, attempting to rationalize his decision. _Okay_ , he thought. _My commanding officer, the one I’m supposed to help, is somewhere behind me. Can’t tell his injuries. He’s more out of the way of the Iraqis, too._ Tunny glanced toward his right at the two boys. They were both still on the ground, shoving each other off one another, squabbling despite their injuries. As soon as the Iraqis got next to the humvee, everyone would be visible, but Ben and Kenny would be so much closer.

 

Tunny tested his left leg, bringing his knee to his chest. The pain was already turning into and ache, which was good. He’d be able to run towards the two boys.

 

 _Sorry, Cap,_ Tunny thought as he gripped Ben’s M16 tight, pushed himself off the ground, and made a beeline to Anderson and Callahan, barely registering Pete’s pained scream of “Clarke, _don’t_ _!_ ”

 

“Tunny, you fuckin’ imbecile,” Ben groaned out once Tunny slammed himself to the ground in front of the boys, already positioning the gun. “You didn’t need to die with us.”

 

“I was thinking more along the lines of ‘I’ll save these two children and they’ll say my name in prayer for the rest of their days.’ Sounds like a good reward,” Tunny hummed back, more focused on his scope than the words being said to him. He peered through it at the two remaining Iraqi men, more specifically their guns. Tunny’s heart sank.

 

“How the fuck did these bastards get AK-47s?” He wondered aloud, mildly concerned. AK-47s has a smaller accuracy rate but made up for it in reliability, while Tunny’s M16 was more accurate and not nearly as dependable.

 

The other men readied their rifles, but Tunny was prepared. He took a quick shot at one of the men, clipping him in the arm with a bullet. That was their window.

 

“Gogogogogogo—“ Tunny pushed Ben from behind, who in turn pushed Ken. The three of them started making their way backwards and to their right, putting distance between them and the Iraqis. Tunny turned himself back around, letting loose another bullet to try and scare them. Instead, they quickened their pace.

 

“Hurry up, kids,” Tunny said to the two privates through gritted teeth. He turned again, taking aim, shooting.

 

Nothing.

 

“FUCK, okay,” Tunny laughed nervously, angrily fidgeting with his gun, glancing up every once in a while.

 

The Iraqis were raising their rifles again.

 

“Get down now!”

 

The two boys immediately flattened themselves to the ground, quick as they could with their present injuries. Tunny hesitated, still messing with his gun, trying desperately to fix it.

 

“Tunny, you too,” Kenny managed.

 

“Gimme a second,” Tunny murmured. “I almost have it.”

 

“No, you idiot, you don’t! Get DOWN!” Ben attempted to yell. Tunny looked up in time to see one of the Iraqis taking aim.

 

Suddenly the man fell, and after another moment, so did the other.

 

Bewildered, Tunny looked to his left.

 

“Thank god you’re not dead, sir,” Tunny blurted. The Iraqi men had come into view of the humvee, and Rogers had shot them down from his position. He looked worse for wear, similar to Ben’s condition since they’d been on the same side of the vehicle.

 

“Clarke, you’re an idiot,” was all Pete called back in return. Tunny and the boys were farther from the humvee than Tunny anticipated, maybe 20-25 meters away.

 

“I know, I know,” Tunny said. Then, softer, “oh, _god._ ”

 

He could’ve died. Right then. He could’ve died not even protecting Ben and Kenny, but in _failing_ to protect them.

 

“I’m sorry. That was so stupid. Oh my god. God, I…” Tunny talked quickly and trailed off, wishing he could cross his arms or just punch something. _He_ had almost been the downfall of his new family.

 

“Tunny,” Rogers said, pushing himself with difficulty into a sitting position, “it’s fine. You’re intention was clear as well as admirable. You were doing the right thing.”

 

“But you dying right before us dying would’ve sucked a lot more, so...maybe don’t do that next time,” Kenny said, now lying on his back.

 

“True,” Ben added. His voice only went a little above a whisper. “Heroic deaths are only cool if they mean shit.”

 

“Uh, kids, the adults were talking. It’s rude to interrupt,” Tunny said, managing to suck his feelings back inside. “Dying aside, though. What’s the game plan, captain?”

 

“I already radioed back to the battalion,” Rogers said, indicating to his personal radio on his chest. “They’re aware of our position, should be on their way.”

 

“Well, how much can we trust _them_ anymore? They pretty much used us as a distraction for the Iraqis,” Kenny said bitterly, propping himself up on his elbows.

 

“Nah, that wasn’t the battalion. That was, like, probably from a higher branch of decision-making,” Ben murmured.

 

“So, now we just wait?”

 

Tunny was about to reply when he heard a quiet whizzing noise not too far from his ear.

 

“Sniper,” he said dully. The two boys, still on the ground, whipped their heads around, eyes wide and searching.

 

Tunny felt his stomach slide lower and lower as bile rose. They were still 20 meters away from any sense of cover. It was inevitable someone was going to get hit.

 

“Move,” Tunny said, his voice low. Rogers was wildly beckoning towards himself. “Move move move move move—”

 

Ben and Kenny were on their feet in less than a second, all three men making a mad dash towards the destroyed  humvee.

 

The next whizz barely hit, but it managed to topple Ben down and cause Tunny to trip over him. Dark blood dribbled from Ben’s shoulder where the bullet had clipped him, and he was whimpering in pain.

 

“Kenny, don’t stop!” Tunny yelled when he saw the private look behind him. The boy nodded and picked up his pace.

 

Tunny stopped thinking. He threw his gun towards their wrecked humvee, grabbed Ben’s other shoulder, hauled his arm over his shoulder, and moved as quickly as possible with a nineteen-year-old half around his upper back.

 

“Tunny, we won’t—”

 

“Shut up, Private,” Tunny grunted back at Ben. There wasn’t an outcome where Ben didn’t make these 20 yards. There couldn’t be.

 

“I see him,” Ben said between fast breaths. “Their vehicle. All the way over there.”

 

Tunny allowed himself a quick glance towards the presumed abandoned Iraqi car. He could make out, barely, in the dark, a silhouette of a sniper rifle held outside the front side window the the car. Then the silhouette of a cartridge being removed.

 

 _Oh my god._ “He’s reloading. Thank god. C’mon, Callahan, let’s pick up the pace,” Tunny quietly instructed. Ben was limping, Tunny noticed, the earlier explosion obviously taking a toll on him. But even with it, the window should’ve been wide enough.

He should’ve been fine.

 

They were five meters away when Tunny glanced back at the car and saw the silhouette of man take aim again, impossibly finished with reloading.

 

Without much thought, Tunny unattached himself from Ben.

 

“Tunny—”

 

Tunny shoved Ben forward towards the humvee with all the strength he could muster.

 

He could’ve laughed at the animatedly confused and outraged look Ben gave him from where he’d fallen on the ground, but the bullet decided to rip through the nerves in his left knee at that moment, and the faint feeling of amusement flew out of his mind.

 

Nothing could’ve prepared him for how a real bullet would feel. There were actual days where Tunny had thought, “it can’t be that bad. People survive.”

 

The pain was so terrible that Tunny didn’t _want_ to survive at first.

 

He didn’t register his apparent crashing to the ground. Only the white hot pain that rippled through his whole body, the waves of nausea rolling through his chest, the sparkling stars swimming through his vision. The heat was unbearable. Maybe he was shaking, sweating, crying, he didn’t know. He might’ve screamed. He felt something wet on his leg, something pulling him forward.

Voices later came from somewhere above him.

 

“Hey guys,” Tunny said absently, not even thinking it. The voices exploded, their volumes dialed up to a hundred as soon as he managed to speak.

 

“You fucking idiot, I hate you, you dumbass—”

 

“Clarke, can you hear us? Can you open your eyes? What are you feeling?”

 

“Are you okay?”

 

Tunny opened his eyes and quickly shut them again. Even the night sky felt too bright.

 

“Yeah, I’m okay. Just tired,” Tunny let himself reply, and he felt himself smile for some ungodly reason.

 

“Oh my god, he’s delusional.” Tunny was pretty sure that was Kenny.

 

“We’re safe for now, Tunny. We took out the sniper about ten minutes ago. Our guys should be here soon.” That was definitely Pete.

 

“Aw, cool, so I guess I blacked out for a bit,” Tunny said distantly. He could feel that he was on his back now rather than his stomach, but his leg was at a weird angle. He attempted to move it.

 

Bad idea.

 

Bolts of pain zigzagged up his leg, wiping any other thought besides the agony from his mind. The nausea decided to return, and he attempted to puke whatever bullshit thing he’d eaten hours ago onto himself.

 

“Sir, why. Why the fuck would you try to move your leg,” Kenny deadpanned.

 

“‘That where it hit? Mmh, makes sense,” Tunny managed to hum, his voice grim yet tight from the sudden burst of pain. Then his first real thought struck him. “Sorry for pushing Ben.”

 

“Oh, it’s okay. Thanks, actually, you idiot,” came Ben’s stinging reply. “You better stay the fuck alive. That guy had a pretty strong gun, I mean, I only got clipped and it felt like it got hit, y’know?”

 

“No, no, I’m fine, really,” Tunny said, attempting to wave his hand in defense. It didn’t come off the ground. “I’m just kinda tired, that’s all. Really.”

 

Each time he said it, the feeling grew stronger. His thoughts were starting to mix together, unable to be sorted into coherent sentences.

 

“It’s really great y’guys are OK. Y’guys are great,” Tunny murmured, and promptly fell asleep.

 

***

 

“You’re not supposed to be conscious right now.”

 

He’d only started having thoughts five seconds ago, but the sound of a voice finally forced his eyes open.

 

Tunny seemed to be in some sort of hangar. A plane. He was in a bed that reminded him of where he slept during his training days—relatively low to the ground, and also very shitty. Except in training, he didn’t have a tube sticking out of his wrist that connected to an IV, steadily pumping fluids through his body, and some medical thing he couldn’t name clamped onto one of his index fingers.

 

He flicked his eyes over to where a woman was standing over a sink, wearing a simple marine-regulated brown shirt and fatigue pants. Her dark hair was wrapped in a low bun, a few stray hairs whisping down the sides of her face.

 

He didn’t need to see her to know it was her.

 

“Eej!” Tunny blurted. “Holy shit, how’d you get on here?”

 

Elizabeth Guthrie finally turned around, trying to hide her sad smile.

 

“Luckily, not the same way you did.”

 

Ever since he became an official marine, he couldn’t stop running into EG, or ‘Eej,’ as he called her sometimes. The first time they bumped into each other was when a few in the nursing division were sent to bring extra materials, food, and good water. They’d hit it off instantly, and Tunny ended up helping her deliver a few things because they didn’t want to stop talking. The second time, two men in the battalion had gotten sprayed by some shrapnel. Elizabeth was there to help pick them up and fly them out, and he got to see her in nurse mode: focused, clear, and incredibly kind through it all. Their interactions alternated in reason, but he’d seen her about seven times and probably talked to her for a total of two and a half hours.

 

Not like he was counting.

 

A small inkling of pain snapped him away from his thoughts. It was coming slowly yet sharply up from his left knee, which was wrapped around with bandages.

 

Tunny must’ve made a face or an involuntary movement. Elizabeth was hurrying herself over. She pressed the soft back of her milk chocolate hand to his forehead, then glanced at his leg, then at some screens Tunny presumed were a bit behind him.

 

“Precisely why you shouldn’t be up right now. Sorry. I must’ve not knocked you out as hard as I thought…” she muttered, quickly returning to the sink area.

 

“No, no, that’s okay,” Tunny smiled through the pain, “because, y’know, we get to talk.”

 

She came back with something Tunny didn’t know in her hand.

 

“Well,” she said, returning his smile with a glint in her eye. “Once I get this in you, I doubt you’ll remember us talking.”

 

Tunny’s eyes widened. “Oh, damn. Sounds a little fucked up.”

 

“Tunny, it’s just a bit of a stronger sedative. Hopefully you’ll be asleep until we reach the hospital,” she added, sitting herself on the side of his bed. She wiped down part of his bicep with a swab and readied the needle.

 

“But,” Tunny tried to protest, “I want to talk to… _you_ …” He said the last part slower, feeling the liquid going through one of his muscles.

“ _Oh_ ,” he sighed.

 

“Better?” Elizabeth asked, dark eyebrows arched.

 

The earlier feeling of pain was already starting to ebb away, as well as his thoughts. They became sort of goopy, sloppy, hard to tread. His eyelids were heavy, too, begging to be closed.

 

“Mmyeaahh,” Tunny hummed out.

 

“Christ, you go fast,” Elizabeth shook her head, her smile never leaving. The room started to get spotty.

 

“ _Fuck_...you...”

 

“Sweet dreams, hun.”

 

Tunny’s head went black as soon as he felt her full lips prested lightly against his cheek.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> once again, thanks for reading! still more to come.


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